Babayaga: A Novel (8 page)

“Well then,” she said, rising to go, “until we meet again.”

He nodded politely. As they left the car, she turned toward the station’s southeast exit. He thought about going back to stop her, to say something funny or charming, at the very least to catch her eye one more time, but it seemed silly and he was tired. Although it was still relatively early, it already felt like it had been a long night and he did not have time for any more foolishness. Up on the street the rain had stopped. He turned off the Champs-Elysées and walked up into his neighborhood, where the comforting scents of bread baking and simmering kitchens seemed to leak out from every apartment and café. It was late into the dinner hour and the aromas of roasting lemon chickens, garlic sausages, and peppered lamb all spilled onto the street, mingling there with the pungent petrichor that always followed an autumn rain. Will realized he had not eaten yet, so he stopped in at the Basque’s place for a bowl of steamed mussels and a
pichet
. There was a newspaper lying on the table that he picked up and read. An article described how the world’s leading nations had met at a conference and divided up Antarctica, cutting it up into slices like pie. He paid the check and went home.

There was no mail in his slot and the elevator was slow going up. When he finally opened the door to his dark apartment, Boris hit him hard in the face with the phone book, knocking him down onto the cold, tiled floor.

A light was turned on and he opened his eyes. “Hullo.” Oliver stood above him, wearing an expression that reminded Will of the grin young boys give their captured butterflies right before they begin plucking off the wings. Then Will passed out again.

IX

Witches’ Song One

Wait, wait, don’t rush past too fast,

such the busy bolting red squirrel, you there

scurrying around the hard, bare field, to what?

That there? That nettled haven of a hedge?

Careful, teeth may lie in those shadows too.

Glance back here first, through the tumble of time

yes, here, see that bundle of dirty laundry

stuffed now with so much useless flesh,

all spilled about to soil the pure snow,

with deep red blood, leaking free

from my cracked, hollowing husk,

as sisters and life all gallop away

with freshly stolen horses.

Mourning, lonely and lone as the black moon,

I trailed the four, trudging till I found my Lyda

wandering lost like some untethered blinking mule,

a sole specter dragging wet

along those rough timbered banks of ice,

the shoreline stacked with bleached stone and winter branches

as gray as my drained, dried veins.

Lyda was sputtering, spitting out scales,

already talking dumb as a dead fish.

I told her to come along and she came.

The trails of the dead plod on,

we never stop for feast or song,

following beneath winter’s skeleton trees,

our weight no greater than a hard frost’s whisperings.

We finally sensed Basha too, looming

invisible, sulking, and brooding,

her only substance the shade of darkness

that comes to murderous concentration.

Silent as slate, hear me say solemnly,

her ghost frightens even me.

So, some company I’ve got,

a river’s raw stew, a stomach’s turgid gas,

the two each saying nothing I can fathom

but poking, pointing, divining a path.

Lacking the firmness of fates, we are no more than

broken pianos, warped keys, shattered hammers,

our sheet music dancing off with the wind, blowing loose and bleak,

but we have our certain melody, yes, we do, don’t we?

See the girl meet the young man?

See the man meet the young man?

See the young man become what then?

Not yet? Maybe never?

All souls believe they make their own way

and spin out their path’s filament through bold free will

and yet we are the spiders, aren’t we, yes,

voracious and certain,

shuffling on, luring and stalking,

tracing out the perimeter

of those tautened spans.

Basha is the one guiding the way,

with the sure force of a cemetery’s gravity,

she and we go here and there

and then she stops from time to time

to softly seethe with hissing vipers, to hoot with shrewd owls,

and to whisper with other sapient creatures.

She is our vengeful matchmaker

all thoughts set fast

on village death.

There is a set point, a marked destination,

And while we cook, chop, and boil,

I cannot say what its flavor will be.

But watching our busy Lyda, helping too,

I’m fairly sure it will taste like fish.

X

Exiting the metro early before work, Charles Vidot took his time strolling to the precinct house. Maroc, his recently appointed superior and now day-to-day nemesis, had posted the week’s assignments the evening before and, spitefully it seemed, had assigned Vidot an extra shift. This meant for two nights a week Vidot would have to remain at the station until two in the morning. It was not an assignment an officer of Vidot’s seniority and rank should have received, but it seemed he had, in some manner, accidentally initiated a battle of wills with his new boss and this was one of the consequences. Well aware of the dynamics of power, Vidot did not like the odds he was facing.

After pausing briefly to pick out his usual Reinette apple from atop the pile at the corner market and offering, as usual, to pay the toothless grocer for the fruit (the man would never take a sou), Vidot went on his way, continuing to mull over this slightly sticky political situation. He knew from experience that any sustained antagonism, even repressed, against a superior was ultimately going to be self-defeating, as bitter words could easily slip out and a carefully managed career could quickly be swept onto the ash pile. He knew he would have to find a way to extricate himself safely from this thorny dilemma. He was not worried, Vidot was a practical, pragmatic man with a keen strategic sense; quixotic idealism was far from his style, he knew full well that merely despising Maroc was not a plan nor was it an option. He had his retirement to consider, and a wife to provide for, so he knew he would stay focused, make a few prudent, tactical adjustments, and work his way to better ground. The bitterness within him began to subside, dissolving into that more familiar pleasure as the small smile crept across his lips and he found himself actually savoring this little riddle. Climbing the last steps to the station, Vidot was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he was almost run over by Officer Bemm rushing out through the doors. The young man looked excited.

“Monsieur! Good morning, I was trying to find you! I received a message this morning from one of the antiques shops, an old woman tried to sell an antique clock.”

“A clock?” Vidot had to pause for a second before his eyebrows shot up. “Ah yes, a clock, I remember! Well done! Let us go immediately. Yes! Get a car. Right away.”

Minutes later they found the antiques shop at the edge of the 6th. It was a narrow crowded street and they had to park more than a block away. The thought of making real progress in this mystery sent all of Vidot’s issues with Maroc flying from his mind. Entering the store, he had to force himself to suppress his giddiness. Now was the time to act professionally.

Unlike the spacious and well-appointed antiques shops that sat toward the center of town, this store was a hodgepodge of clutter. As they worked their way down the narrow aisle of cabinets and bureaus, a small, fat man with a bushy mustache and bulging eyes popped out from the back of the shop.

“
Je peux vous aider?
”

“Yes, monsieur, you called the police station and left a message,” said Bemm.

The man immediately switched into a state of extreme urgency. “
Mon dieu
, you’re almost too late, she’ll be here any moment. Quick, come into my storeroom,
vite, vite
!”

He led them into the rear room that was even more packed with antiques. They stepped gingerly around piled-up chandeliers, rows of paintings, and stacked-up jewelry boxes until they could find a space to talk. “She came in as I was closing up last night,” said the man. “I told her I did not have the cash on hand and that she should return today. She has a mantel clock, late-eighteenth-century, very fine craftsmanship, rococo style. Worth more than a few thousand francs, I’m sure. How a Gypsy like her got her hands on it I cannot imagine. I called you right away, of course. I run a very honest operation.”

The inspector nodded respectfully.

“So, what sort of crime is this?” the shopkeeper went on, rubbing his hands together. “Is she a thief? Some kind of gang leader? Is this contraband from the war? I only ask because I know the reward will likely be based on the nature—”

Vidot made a small tsk-tsk sound. He never liked to share information about cases he was investigating. He was relieved that the tale of the Parisian man impaled impossibly high on the irons above rue Rataud, had so far, miraculously, not appeared in the local papers. He did not need the attention. He would have thought an incredible death like that would have headlined as the crime of the year, but Mitterrand’s scandal, Cuba’s charismatic young Fidel Castro, and the ongoing unrest in Algiers continued to eat up the headlines. Vidot thought these were indeed amazing times, when a man could be hung high on the street with a spike through his neck and nobody paused to notice. He took the shopkeeper’s hand and patted it gently. “Patience, sir. If the information proves to be useful, we will happily reward you. But first, please tell us, when is this Gypsy woman set to return?”

“At any moment! That is why I had to bring you to this room. Now wait here. When she comes in you can pounce on her!”

Vidot shook his head. “No thank you, we will watch from across the street. Simply pay her, and please act as naturally as possible.”

He and Bemm went out the storeroom door, which opened onto the side street and, walking around the corner, entered a pharmacy located right across the street. There were no customers in the shop, and while Vidot explained the situation to the couple behind the counter, Bemm turned around the “Closed” sign in the front door. Then the two policemen positioned themselves discreetly behind the window and waited.

After a little while Bemm asked, “Would you like me to go get you coffee?”

“No, no,” said Vidot, “this should not take long.”

“Why don’t we simply arrest her?”

Vidot smiled. “Do you think a weak old woman could hoist a fat man up onto those spikes? No, there is more to this story. Let’s get to know her a little bit and see what we can learn.”

Twenty minutes later they saw a squat ancient woman carrying a large heavy package work her way down the street and turn into the antiques shop. Five minutes later she came out again empty-handed. As they started for the door, Bemm said, “There’s a radio in the car, I could call for assistance.”

“Please,” Vidot scoffed. “I believe we can handle her ourselves. You’re in uniform, she’ll easily spot you. So stay far behind and keep your eye on me, I can stay close.”

Trailing behind her, Vidot carefully kept his distance, subtly gesturing back to Bemm, who was more than a block behind, to keep a proper length away. This proved to be wise since the old woman stopped and looked around every so often. Vidot could not tell if she was being careful or simply trying to get her bearings. He was not particularly concerned; after years of experience he knew how to follow a suspect unobserved, and with the streets bustling with midday shoppers, the officers had no trouble staying on her trail.

To Vidot, she seemed painfully old. Watching her swollen varicose legs work their way down the lane, Vidot sensed the ache of every step. As he slowly followed her through the maze of cobblestone streets—pausing occasionally to window-shop whenever she glanced around—Vidot found himself preoccupied with thoughts on the expansive arc of life, how slowly old age stretches out long after youth has flown by, and how, he thought as he watched her make her way, the nomadic people of earlier times must have built those first simple towns and villages for no other reason than to give their own ancient mothers and fathers a place to sit down and rest. Vidot dreaded the thought of aging, his own father had died relatively young, in his early fifties. But his mother was nearing ninety now and was cared for at home by a private nurse. Of course Vidot was glad she was still alive, not only because he loved her, but also because, after his father passed away, she had actually grown noticeably kinder, even gay. Every afternoon in her sun room, the nurse would play old phonograph records while his mother happily waltzed with invisible partners. Perhaps she danced with the memory of his father, Vidot imagined, or maybe lost suitors recalled from another age.

Following behind this tired creature now, Vidot had a feeling those legs of hers could never dance, let alone carry her another block, and, sure enough, she turned off into a small dead-end lane. Vidot peeked around the corner and saw her disappear down into a basement apartment.

Bemm caught up with him moments later. “Come,” Vidot said, “let us see what our new friend has to say.”

The old woman did not look surprised when she answered their knock at her door, and her eyes showed little concern or interest as they introduced themselves. Vidot felt as though they could have been electricians or plumbers she had been expecting. “Fine, yes, hello, come in,” she said, shutting the door tightly behind them.

Vidot was immediately intrigued by the contents of the small, packed apartment. The light streaming in was tinted yellow and the air was heavy and mote-laden. Every nook was stuffed and filled. Stacks of books labeled in Cyrillic script were packed and shoved roughly into the uneven shelves, and more were piled crookedly in the corners, all topped and lined with tied bundles of dried herbs, jars of pickled roots, and bole-colored soils. Small growths of mushrooms cropped from mildewed cracks in the windowsill, and as Vidot peered into an open copper pot, he saw tiny orange minnow creatures swimming about in a brackish brown-and-mustard-colored liquid. The creatures seemed to glow.